Third Time's the Charm
by tamatoe
Summary: "Do you really want to die, Mr. Banner?" -The first time he tried, he woke up to a green eyed man plucking the bullet from his head.
1. Chapter 1

"Do you really want to die, Mr. Banner?" -The first time he tried, he woke up to a green eyed man plucking the bullet from his head.

* * *

The dinginess of the air threatens to stifle him, choke him with its uncleanliness, and Bruce squares his shoulder, though his gaze on the floor does not falter. He taps his knee methodically, and with a dull quirk of his head, Bruce notices his finger nails have gotten longer. Dirt resides under the nails, and he lifts a hand to inspect them.

Oh. That's right. It's been awhile since _he's _been out. At the conjuration of his new nickname the other guy jostles for a moment, inside, burning for exploration. Bruce hisses, bows over, head buried in his hands. _Be quiet._

His blood boils for a moment, veins rushing in excitement, and Bruce snatches the alcohol from the table beside him. The alcohol burns, but in a way Bruce would like to be more familiar with, and he can feel his body growing heavy from another matter entirely.

_He_ dulls away; the headache pulses for both of them, and the other guy doesn't like annoyances. A wry smile tugs at Bruce's lips, and he gulps down the rest despite the protest in his throat. Coughing, he sets down the glass before his rough hands can break it too. No matter how delicate he handles things, they always break under his fingers, shatter under green. It is a feeling Bruce doesn't like growing accustomed to.

His pocket is heavy, and Bruce falters for a moment. Swallowing thickly, he rubs his neck, stretching the rusty joints. The gun presses against the outline of his pocket, and Bruce stills. Slowly, he reaches for the weapon, and lets it sit on his palm. The revolver is surprisingly light, and for a moment, Bruce wonders how such a small thing can ruin so many lives. He is familiar with Big wrecking things.

He sighs, lets his fingers curl around the weapon. He regards the gun with half-lidded eyes, the metal shining in the swinging lamp from above them. He rights it, presses it against his temple hesitantly.

_Do it._

His fingers are still.

Bruce exhales. Coward. He's been planning this for weeks, days, and now he was abandoning it? No, he went through too much stress and work to get the gun, and too much pain for one man. Too much loss.

_Do it._

His ears ring from the impact as Bruce slumps against the shabby carpet, blood sinking into the carpet. _What an ugly color, _he thinks, and his head throbs painfully. He wonders if he might have missed, he should have died on impact, he righted the gun so it would do so. Slowly, his vision dims at the edges, and it feels like his eye is pulsing, bulging. When he thinks the black will take him away forever, a hot feeling overcomes his skin, his vision. Red blurs in front of him.

Too late, he thinks pettily, even as the other guy roars.

…

all he sees is _redredred_, it burns so much, his head, and make the pain go away, make it go away-

something cold presses against his temple, sharpness digging into his head, and he can _feel_ someone inside his fucking head- _it hurts._

For an instance, Bruce blinks, sees glaring green, and closes his eyes painfully, when the sharpness goes away. The burn dulls, silences as if it were missing something. Bruce feels like he's missing something too. Too green, he thinks, though he doesn't know why, and sleeps.

…

Bruce wakes with a start, hand raised and pressed against his temple. There is no wound. Shit, Bruce thinks, _he_ even took the liberty of death.

"It's healed."

Bruce starts again, tenses, raises his eyes to his guest. A green eyed man meets his stare, head tilted to the side. His hair is tucked up almost maniacally, and the glint off his glasses glares at him when the lamp swings. The light gives him a headache, and despite his reservations about his guest, he groans, slumps back into the blankets.

The man chuckles from his perch on the shabby night table, and leans closer to scrutinize Bruce. Bruce doesn't allow his shock or suspicion show, simply regards the man with curiosity.

"Who are you?"

The man taps his chin, as if he has to ponder the question seriously, and it actually looks like he does. Green eyes lift to the light, blinks, before returning to his own.

"Harry."

"Ah, Harry," Bruce replies, brushing off the strange interaction before. "May I ask what, exactly, are you doing in my room?"

The man's lips lift slightly. "Just checking on you. I heard something."

"Right," Bruce says, only a little relieved. Did the other guy not actually get out?

"Although, you do look a little green, Mr. Banner."

Bruce tenses, jaw set, and narrows his eyes at Harry, who only offers a sheepish grin. He groans when a throbbing pain pulses in his temple, and presses a hand in an attempt to soothe it. Must be the alcohol, he thinks, as he finds his limbs sluggish and heavy when he moves to stand up.

"I wouldn't suggest moving," Harry intones, hops off the table, and for the first time, Bruce notices what the other man is wearing. Black draping robes encompass his body, until the only skin he see is the pale hands fluttering around the table and his face. Harry turns around with something grasped in his hands, ambles to the bed, and offers it to Bruce.

Bruce eyes the bowl suspiciously, but tips his head to Harry in inquiry.

"It's soup," Harry deadpans, and despite hesitation on Bruce's part, dumps it in Bruce's hand. Bruce notes the cold fingers, but allows his fingers to curl around the warm bowl.

"Why?"

"Room service," Harry shrugs. Bruce seriously doubts it since he specifically advised them not to come into his room, but grips the thin wooden spoon anyways. He tests a spoonful, and tries not to gag. The groggy liquid tastes worse than horse manure, Bruce thinks, but manages to swallow. Harry is inspecting his reaction, grinning when Bruce lifts eyes to him. Bruce can't tell him it tastes like shit.

Instead, he stirs the soup idly, asks, "What kind of soup is this?"

"Oh, it's not soup."

Bruce stills again, lowers the bowl, and says, "But you said-"

"I was lying," Harry shrugs, smiles. "Don't worry, it's not poison; more like a cure, really."

"To what ailment?" Bruce asks drily, sets the wooden bowl aside.

"But," Harry says, "if you didn't trust me, why did you eat it?"

A beat of silence, in which Harry narrows his eyes before sighing. Bruce squares his shoulders, leans back until back meets wall. Here, Harry takes something from his pocket, and Bruce watches, bemused, as he twists the bullet in his fingers.

"Do you really want to die, Mr. Banner?" Harry asks, squinting at the bullet. There's still blood smudged into the silver, and Harry tries in vain to scrub it away. Bruce watches silently.

He finally gives up, pockets the bullet, and turns to Bruce. "Why take the coward's way out?"

Bruce's hands curl into fists, and he tries to quell the anger by tensing and releasing his fingers. What does he know? Nothing.

"Why not burn to death? Drown?"

Bruce blinks. "What?"

"There are many ways to die. Granted, the gun was the quickest, but I really doubt you chose it for that. It was hard work getting it after all. Tell me, why the gun?"

Bruce doesn't answer, merely sighs.

"Shame," Harry intones.

"Who are you working for?" Bruce interjects, stares at Harry.

"Does it really matter?"

"S.H.I.E.L.D?" Bruce says. Silence.

"Why the blood?" Bruce asks. "What do you want from me?"

"Silence. Would be nice right now."

Bruce chuckles, and he's not certain the laugh sounds entirely sane.

"You guys are really persistent, you know that?"

Harry hums in reply. "Just,- please. What do you want?"

"Nothing," Harry says easily, "just your cooperation."

"Oh, you have it," Bruce laughs, now he's certain there was something in the soup, "just got to ask the _other guy_ first."

"You want to meet Death," Harry observes, not a threat, merely a statement.

Bruce sobers, and straightens. His muscles don't protest as much, and as his feet meet carpet, he notes how the red has left it. Harry has a small stature, barely reaching Bruce's shoulders. In fact, the man looked like he barely got past his teens.

"You're smaller up close."

"Good to know," Harry replies drily, and watches with amusement as Bruce tips the glasses back up his nose when it slips.

"If you don't work for Shield, how do you know my name?"

"Room Service," Harry says, edges around the other man and perches on his night table.

"The motel doesn't provide Room Service," Bruce deadpans and Harry laughs.

"Consider it charity, then."

Bruce frowns briefly, before walking to the door. As his fingers curl around the doorknob he waits for a protest. None comes. When he looks back, Harry is looking at him with furrowed brows. No matter. He was going to move a long time ago. He passed a man in the market a few days back. While he was dressed as poverty, sunglasses were tucked in his pocket when Bruce bent down to retrieve his own glasses. Now it might be a coincidence, but Bruce wasn't taking any chances.

Behind him, the wind howls.

* * *

**A/N: **this didn't turn out the way i wanted it to :/. will probably make another story about it. still, hope you enjoyed! reviews would be adored :)


	2. Chapter 2

"Death is nothing to us, since when we are, death has not come, and when death has come, we are not. "- Epicurus.

* * *

Bruce notices the missing gun miles later, and he can't help but feel frustrated (he always is). He sighs, settles on a boulder to rest. The sun burns his skin, and he allows it. _Green is uglier than red. _He tries to forget of strange men with green eyes, and poisoned soup. A short amount of time later, he straightens. His eyelids are heavy, and his muscles are sluggish, but he manages to stand.

_Move, Banner. _He complies listlessly, ignoring his stomach, his aching muscles. He cannot afford capture. He won't.

Still, intentions and the physical body do not always work together, and he finds his face introduced to the dirt before the sun falls.

…

He wakes to the smell of fire, burning and cracking in the night air. He slants a look, and his suspicions are confirmed. Harry is stirring a pot above the fire, offering a soft grin when he notices the stare. The man didn't even bother to remove Bruce from his face plant.

He rubs his face, fixes himself into a sitting position. The heat from the fire nips at his worn shoes. Should probably get new ones soon, somehow.

"So, Harry, are you going to admit to following me, or is this just another persistent attempt at room service?"

Harry chuckles, and Bruce can't help but think it's morbid, all white teeth and black holes. Like he could swallow you hole, and spit you out in the same instant. Here, features highlighted by the fire, Bruce cannot hold back his ire, his fear. He tries to anyways.

"Someone as young as you shouldn't be working for something like S.H.I.E.L.D," Bruce announces, as if his opinion mattered, held merit.

"You'll be surprised how young they start," Harry says, doesn't look up from the pot as he pours some soup into his bowl. Bruce narrows his eyes when pale hands offer him the bowl.

"Thanks for the offer," he says drily, "but I think we can all learn from past encounters that might not be best."

"Nonsense," Harry insists, "it's better. Promise."

Even Bruce knows how malnourished he is, and is not stubborn enough to turn down anything that would fill his stomach, even soup that resembled horse manure. He accepts it.

It is incredibly better, but compared to the original, it is not put into high regard anyways.

"What meat is this?" Bruce queries, poking the clump of flesh in his meal.

"Whatever makes you feel better," Harry says, sits down.

"And you're not eating because?"

"Not hungry."

Bruce hums, compliant for now; he does not seek conflict, does not seek confrontation. They come to him anyways, drawn to him like he was fire and them, marshmallows. Lean in too close and they get burnt, recoil as if they did not expect the reaction. Didn't expect the other guy.

"Feeling better?" Harry is saying now, when Bruce not so subtly asks for seconds.

"Thank you," Bruce says, and though he knows Harry is not necessarily doing these things for him, but for his companion, he acknowledges the help.

Harry looks shocked for a moment, before smiling. "My pleasure, Mr. Banner."

When Bruce does not seek any further conversation, Harry looks just a little disappointed.

…

Bruce cannot sleep in the Harry's presence, and he does not know if Harry acknowledges and leaves, or departs to do some other business. He is so quiet, Bruce never notices when he even leaves, nor realizes when he comes back until he seeks rest.

Bruce doesn't know why he doesn't object to Harry's presence. Perhaps, wasting his breath wouldn't change anything, so he does not vocally protest. He convinces himself this is why, and not because he is pathetic enough to wish for company with someone from SHIELD who claimed he was only helping, or keeping company.

"Are you asleep, Mr. Banner?"

"No."

"I see," Harry says, but does not move to leave. Bruce stares at him from across the shabby, too small room, and sighs.

"Why are you here, Harry?" Bruce asks, softly, turning eyes to the cracks in the ceiling, the leaks.

"Are you not lonely, Mr. Banner?"

"No," is the stiff answer. "Lonely suggests I want company, but I only need its absence."

"And why is that?"

"Doesn't your agency tell you that kind of stuff? Or do you not know why you're even here in the first place?"

Harry surveys Bruce with careful eyes. "You speak as if you know my reason for being here, and yet you ask me why?"

"I'm a fickle man who needs to hear confirmation," Bruce retorts.

Harry laughs. "Mr. Banner, you are not a man at all."

Bruce should have anticipated this, but the sting is still loud and ringing in his ears. He tries not to show his recoil too obviously. Why should he condemn someone who shares the same sentiments?

Harry leans in, all sharp edges and green eyes, says, "You are much more."

Bruce thinks he would rather have a hateful prick than an insane megalomaniac for company. And considers if the statement is even a compliment.

Harry dims the lights, and gets up from his position on the grimy floor.

"Sleep tight, Mr. Banner," Harry says.

"Where do you go?" Bruce asks, curious and just a little cautious. Did he have others with him, tracking Bruce's every movement? Sometimes, Bruce thinks he'd rather have confrontation than people hiding behind trees, watching him.

"Have a job, I'm afraid," Harry answers, and is gone before Bruce can reply. The wind sweeps in the open door, and Bruce snorts. Was he trying to show off? He toys with the thought of leaving, ditching. But, this is not the first, and Harry is apparently keeping tabs on him. Appearing at every turn with a smile, and a simple "Hello, Mr. Banner."

It is not something he wishes to grow accustomed to.

He does anyways.

"You help them."

Bruce doesn't look up from the little boy he is treating, prods the swollen elbow. "Yes."

"Despite it being detrimental to your cover. To their health."

Bruce falters for a moment, before wrapping the cloth around the boy's arm to staunch the bleeding. He smiles at the child's nervous look, taps a finger to his lips. Despite the language barrier, the boy nods with a solemn look, as if accepting an important mission. He hops off the table, and disappears.

Harry tips his head to the side. "They're calling you a miracle worker."

"Is that so?" Bruce asks, wipes his hands.

"You do not deny it."

Bruce gives Harry a long stare. "Last I checked, you only spoke English."

A vague, forced smile. "Actions and intentions break any language barrier. If you looked hard enough."

"Right," Bruce says, doubt marring his tone.

"It would be better to stay away from civilization. The animals and trees won't remember your face."

Mirth curls Bruce's lips. "But you will."

"Different," Harry waves off.

"SHIELD already has me on their map."

"That will not change. But the others don't."

Bruce frowns.

"People will slow them down. They are not monsters."

"But you are." A pregnant pause in which Bruce stares and Harry stares back.

"I'm hurt, Harry," Bruce says, carding a hand through his hair, "we've been together- what? Months, and you think I'm a monster?"

"Sarcasm does not suit you, Mr. Banner."

"Neither is the truth," Bruce says simply. Harry leaves after that.

He hasn't thought about Death for a fairly long time, Bruce realizes. Slants a look to Harry who is offering a banana to a monkey. The monkey shrieks in terror, and departs quickly, disappearing into the sausage trees. Harry watches with a wry twist to his lips.

"The animals avoid you," Bruce observes.

"As they do you, yes," says Harry, as he walks over and deposits the banana in Bruce's satchel.

"Are you a monster too?" Bruce teases. Harry only offers a vague smile, again. Bruce doesn't want to think about that.

"Let's go. The animals here can be territorial."

"Are you afraid of monkeys, Harry?"

"For them, Mr. Banner," Harry corrects, and Bruce quiets, slinging the satchel over his shoulders.

…

Harry is gone when he tries again. The green eyed man is right. He is hazardous to people, yet he stays close. Bruce is selfish. He realizes that. Cowardice stills the blade a mere inch from his chest.

The other guy stirs, and Bruce abandons the pathetic knife. In the end, Bruce is the one who stops himself. The other guy is hot on his mind, burning, and Bruce closes his eyes. He is angry. With himself, with Harry, with the little boy tugging at his pants, pointing to the cut on his knee.

The other guy quiets after a while. And Banner realizes how _alive_ the other is. Different.

Is Bruce selfish or selfless? He doesn't know.

Instead, he smiles at little boy, beckons him closer so he can inspect the injury. Tending to it puts his mind to rest, or rather distracts it. The boy is not broken, and that's all Bruce can ask for right now.

_Green is not a pretty color._

* * *

_**/N:**_ anoxia is the complete deprivation of oxygen. the more you know. the quote makes this story legit. i'm starting to enjoy this story, so it shall be updated more so than The Ancients are Rusting. hope you enjoyed. reviews would be adored :).


	3. Chapter 3

This is the last chapter of his life, Bruce likes to think. Hands mending broken bones, smiles lifted in his honor every time he ducks his head shyly when they bring him gifts. He knows they have hardly enough to eat, and yet they offer it to him freely? It is a gift he finds hard swallowing.

"They want you to eat it," Harry says, and Bruce turns to him, dirty apple in hand. The intensity of his green stare almost makes Bruce drop it. Bruce looks away, oddly flustered. As if Harry's stare was something to balk at.

"I know that," Bruce says softly, turning the fruit in his hands, wiping it clean as best he could with his torn shirt. (He does not like to think of what caused it.)

"Then eat it," Harry says, as if there weren't starving children outside, as if Bruce seriously needed the extra food. Maybe he doesn't understand, Bruce thinks, hopes, because although he does not like Harry, he does not detest him either, and maybe he just really really wants a companion (friend, if he's pushing it).

"No," Bruce replies, "they need food more than I do. Look at them, Harry."

Harry doesn't. Merely tilts his head.

"Are you not allowed to be hungry, as well?"

Bruce frowns then, not liking the turn of conversation. "No. I mean yes."

"Then eat," Harry dismisses, "You have been looking rather pale, as of late."

_It's better than green_, but Bruce dismisses the thought. He knows self-pity gets you nowhere. He sighs, and takes a bite, and surprises himself by chewing with enthusiasm. The apple is rather bland. He remembers a better taste, but he swallows.

"There," Harry says, smugness colors his tone, "Don't you feel better?"

Bruce does not answer, but he grins, and that seems to satisfy Harry. He blinks at the cracks in the ceiling again, furrowing his brows in thought. An old woman waits outside, supported by a slim young man, and he steps outside to help.

He does not notice Harry scowl.

* * *

Bruce does not doubt anymore. He is fine like this. He meditates everyday, _inhaleexhale, _and banishes the thought of broken furniture and bones under green fingers. Harry eyes him warily every now and then, mouth pursed, dissatisfied.

"What?" Bruce says, and Harry only looks away.

"_What?_" Bruce repeats sharply, and Harry sighs.

"Eat," the man says, "You are getting too thin."

Bruce complies, only because he is hungry and he does not want anymore soup. Belatedly, he notices Harry never eats. He entertains the thought of bringing it up, but sharp green eyes appraise him, and he abandons the thought.

More often than not, Bruce turns a blind eye to strange bizarre occurrences regarding Harry. He tells himself it's not his business, but mostly, he wants Harry's image to come out unscathed. So, when the other man grasps his broken glasses in stiff hands, and hands it back mended, and clean, he smiles and thanks him.

Some part of him wonders if Harry is a freak, an experiment gone wrong, but he quells the thought.

_Harry's green is the prettiest and most appalling color he's every seen. _

"I get my eyes from my mother," Harry comments one day, watching the women gather herbs in their baskets.

"Good to know," Bruce replies, wipes his hands in his make-shift towel.

"Where do you get your eyes, Mr. Banner?"

Bruce hesitates. "My father, I suppose," he says carefully, turning to Harry who didn't look like he particularly cared.

"What color would you say your eyes were?"

"Blue," Bruce answers easily, and Harry only hums.

* * *

The 'agent of SHIELD' gist is starting to dull in Bruce's mind, although he supposes Harry never claimed the title. He never denied it either.

Bruce's head is starting to hurt.

_Inhale, Exhale, remember to breathe._

* * *

One day, Bruce forgets to breathe. It is nothing serious, at first. It is just hotter than usual, and he finds the heat irritating. His heart beat spikes, and he closes his eyes in an attempt to soothe it. Something rustles in the bush by him, and the click of someone's tongue is the last thing he hears before the dart hits him.

Then everything's _greengreengreen _and a world of hurt.

This was supposed to be the last chapter of his life.

He wakes up to fear in his throat, and loose pants in the other. He glances at the pants, and his eyes widen in understanding. The rubble underneath his feet only make his stomach drop, and he works to cool his temper.

"I found your pants," Harry drawls from behind him. Bruce's 'thanks' dies in his throat. He knows that SHIELD already knows about his condition, hell, that's why they were even tracking him. So why did he feel weird?

He straightens, and catches the eye of the little boy from before. A woman's arm is wrapped around his neck. The little boy recoils in fear, tugs the woman away from his vision. The action leaves a dull ache in his throat.

He breathes, slowly. "Who?"

"Unfortunately, I don't know."

Bruce shakes his head in bitter mirth. "I thought SHIELD knew everything?"

_But he's not SHIELD, is he Banner? No, Mr. Banner, he's not._

Harry doesn't answer, shuffles closer, giving him a narrow-eyed inspection. Bruce shifts from his vision, uneasy. Harry _feels _different now. When he turns, he spies the debris he left the village in. He falters, eyes wide. _He_ caused this. An abomination.

"What happened?" Bruce says, vaguely, voice faint.

"An accident," Harry says, "it happens all the time." _It _shouldn't happen all the time.

"Accidents happen," Harry repeats, and Bruce can hear the frown in his voice. Bruce counts to ten, as if it helped.

"You don't _understand_," Bruce says, voice heavy, "people died."

"Yes, that's what people do," Harry replies, unperturbed.

Harry can't understand, because he won't. There is blood everywhere (maybe it's just him), and Bruce changes his mind. Red is not prettier than green.

"Don't," Harry warns, scowling.

Harry doesn't understand. Bruce needs to change this vicious cycle of moving and fighting and burning. He can't do it anymore. He feels the burden on his shoulders sag, weigh him down suddenly. He takes a deep breath.

He comes to a decision.

"No," Harry says, like he could read minds, which Bruce knows isn't true (is it?).

"Banner," Harry snaps, "Do as I say."

Bruce deflates. "Okay."

"You're lying." And it doesn't matter, Bruce decides, on what he says. Actions speak louder than words.

"Maybe," Bruce concedes.

Before Bruce recognizes the touch, Harry's hands are around his head. The touch is cold, and Bruce finds himself recoiling from it. He stares into _greengreen _eyes and suddenly the world isn't what it is anymore. There is nothing but ink and skeletal fingers around his skull, drumming along the hollowness.

"I tried," Harry says, ancient and so _sorry, _that Bruce starts to get scared. And the other guy pumps along side him.

"I helped," Harry says, as if he were trying to convince himself, and suddenly it isn't green but dull and nothingness. _Death._

"Consider it a curse," Harry says, finally, and there is something sharp in his_ head_, digging and blinding, and the pain bursts against his mind like a budding flower. _No, not SHIELD material. _

"The next time you see me," Harry says, "you're dying." It is a statement not spoken with malice, nor ill contempt. Just a fact.

The other guy roars and screams and Bruce closes his eyes against the painful red spreading across his vision.

* * *

When Bruce wakes, Harry is not there.

When Bruce walks, Harry is not there.

When Bruce remembers, he cannot recall the taste of soup, nor where he misplaced his glasses. The little boy still cowers, and Bruce moves.

Over the months, Harry is not there (maybe, he was never there), and Bruce starts to forget. The only thing he can cling to is the greenness of Harry's eyes. Bruce decides it's better to forget. For all he knows (he has an inkling) he might just have encountered the Grim Reaper. He is not entirely sure what to think of that.

So, he forgets and mends and smiles at new faces, and they call him a miracle worker here too. SHIELD still covers him, and he still runs. It is getting repetitive.

And then he wakes up with his glasses in his hand that he knew he lost in a land far far away. Is it a threat? SHIELD? Someone following him?

Harry? Death?

Instead of pursuing the topic, Bruce puts them on, and continues his normal life, without green monsters and vague smiles.

Life is full, then.

* * *

The weight is heavier today, and Bruce chokes under the pressure. They offer him concerned looks, ask him if he needs help. He stares at their faces, looks at their brittle bone, and acknowledges how _easy_ it would be to die, to go away.

He says he's fine.

Is it any surprise when he has a gun by the time the sun falls?

He does not want to hurt anymore. And maybe he's selfish and making this about him, but it's about all the other people he surrounds himself with. They don't deserve this either. And he _is_ the other guy, so the only person losing today was him.

That does not prevent his fingers from shaking. He manages to hover the gun in front of his mouth, which was open. It does not matter if he is ready, he thinks.

This is the quickest, easiest, painless way, and if anyone deserves it, it's Bruce (right)? Before he regrets it, he pulls the trigger.

And there is no green anymore, just ink.

The other guy wakes up.

* * *

_"I put a bullet in my mouth-"_

* * *

And it burns- is this death? The afterlife? Perhaps. Burn for your sins, comes to mind. But then he remembers the pain, the hurt, and he remembers why and the when and how.

"_Consider it a curse," _he had said, hurting and binding and killing Bruce, in the head, up in his skull.

"_You are not dying yet," _he had said, implied, whispered. The other guy had screamed and roared like he was dying, and maybe he was-is- because sometimes, Death can be excruciatingly slow, and the other guy had _screamed_ like Harry was killing him.

"_The next time you see me, you are dying," _Bruce remembered, and this is death- isn't it- because he wakes up to _greengreengreen_ under burning eyelids, except- (the other guy had screamed, hadn't he? Harry did something, Death did something)

It is a very different green.

The other guy wakes up- and _spits it out._

* * *

**A/N: Thank you for all the reviews, favorites, follows, and C2 admissions.**Sorry for the long wait everyone! This was supposed to be the ending, but I'm going to add an epilogue. There's a chance for a sequel, but this is a good ending, yeah? At least, I think. My writing style is a little different, isn't it? This will be my first multi-chaptered fic that's going to be complete. This was always going to be the ending, (inspired by Banner quote in Avengers), but I'm curious as to what the readers thought it was going. Did you like it? Unexpected? Confusing?

Thanks for reading, and as always, reviews, or flames (I know this ending will infuriate at least half of you, sorry) would be adored!


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